The Sheikh's Captive American
The Sheikh's Captive American
Zahkim Sheikhs Series Book One
Leslie North
Contents
Zahkim Sheikhs
The Sheikh's Captive American
Blurb
Mailing List
About Leslie
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
End of The Sheikh's Captive American
Thank you!
Sneak Peek: The Sheikh's Determined Lover
Other Books by Leslie North
Zahkim Sheikhs
The Sheikh's Captive American
The Sheikh's Determined Lover
The Sheikh's Unexpected Wife
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, MARCH 2018
Copyright © 2018 Relay Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Book design by Kasmit Covers.
www.relaypub.com
Blurb
Sheikh Tarek of Zahkim doesn't believe in superstitions or hunches, so when an old woman tells him an angel will fall from the sky and save him and his tiny kingdom, he ignores such a prophecy—until Tess Angel crashes into his life. Literally. Now he's struggling with an attraction to this very modern woman—but her life is worlds away from his own. There’s no chance of a future for them, but in the present moment, he can't keep his hands off her.
After her jet crashes, Tess Angel is stuck in Zahkim with a gorgeous sheikh, and she has a hunch they could be soulmates. But this sheikh keeps telling her he's a rational man who doesn’t believe in true love, and while his grandmother is scheming to keep Tess in Zahkim, Sheikh Tarek seems willing to let her go on her way. Can she convince him there's more to this world than facts and numbers—and that true love can overcome any obstacles?
Mailing List
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(Zahkim Sheikhs Series Book One)
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About Leslie
Leslie North is the USA Today Bestselling pen name for a critically-acclaimed author of women's contemporary romance and fiction. The anonymity gives her the perfect opportunity to paint with her full artistic palette, especially in the romance and erotic fantasy genres.
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Prologue
Tarek Rahim watched as his cousins and friends, Nasim and Arif, leaped with a whoop down the curved steps of the Sheldonian Theatre, their academic gowns flapping behind them. He followed at a more dignified pace.
"We're free, lads!" Nasim shouted.
Tarek shook his head. Happy as he was to have completed his Oxford education, he couldn't quite bring himself to crow. Other graduates laughed and jostled around them, greeting their families, and Tarek pressed his lips together. For a moment, he could only think of his parents. Five years ago, an automobile accident had taken their lives. He wished they could see him now.
Blinking, he pulled himself back to the moment. He could already hear the rattle of shackles coming to bind him to the throne of Zahkim, inherited from his father. His grandmother, Amal, had been acting as regent until he finished his education. Tomorrow he must become Sheikh Tarek of Zahkim, and the thought wasn't appealing.
Nasim jabbed an elbow into his ribs. "We are going to party right up until we have to pour you onto the plane home. Let's get rid of these robes and head to the Sunset Lounge."
Arif chuckled. "You only want to go there because of that bartender who gives you doubles. It's amazing you got your degree, given how much attention you paid to women and drink instead of your studies."
"I had to make up for you," Nasim said, slapping Arif on the back. Tarek smiled. They did tend to give Arif a hard time about his resistance to hedonistic delights.
Tarek thumped his cousin's back as well. "Don't worry, Arif. I'm sure we can find a woman to interest you tonight. It's our last chance in England to live like the English."
An hour later, they crossed the street and headed to the upscale bar they’d made their own over the last four years. Arif had his eyes on his mobile, as usual.
"No phones tonight." Tarek plucked the device from Arif's hand and stuffed it into his own pocket. "Only friends. Who knows when we'll have another chance to do this."
"And no being maudlin," Nasim said.
Tarek straightened into a mock-formal pose. "I am a serious man, Nasim."
Nasim snorted, and Arif said, "Tell that to the first year whose shampoo you replaced with mayonnaise."
They laughed and turned toward the entrance, where chatter and laughter spilled out. The evening was descending, and streetlights flickered on up and down the sidewalk. The peculiar smell of Oxford—something not quite like sour milk—hung in the air. Tarek shivered in a cool gust of wind. He'd never become accustomed to the cold of England. He'd just reached the corner of the building when an old woman stepped from the shadows of an alley and grasped Tarek's wrist.
The woman looked older even than Tarek's grandmother. In the dim light, he couldn't see much but bright blue eyes and wisps of gray hair escaping from the black scarves swathed around her head and shoulders. A baggy dress draped her figure, and she smelled faintly of beer.
"I'll tell your fortune. Such handsome men, such tangled paths…"
"Not tonight, mother." Shaking her off, Tarek reached for his wallet. "No futures. We want only this moment."
But Nasim stepped between Tarek and the old woman. "It's the perfect night—we have only the future ahead of us. Let's hear her out."
Arif frowned and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. "Do you really want to know? There's more to it than you realize."
Tarek pulled two fifty-pound notes from his wallet and pushed them into the woman's gnarled fist. "Find yourself some food and a place to sleep, mother. I'm not thinking about the future until I must."
She grasped his arm and pulled at him until he had to bend closer. She spoke clearly, but so softly only he could hear. "An angel will fall from the sky and land at your feet, sheikh. She will save your country, but only if you fall at her feet in turn. Trust your instincts, my son."
Tarek stared at her, but she only gave a smile and faded into the gathering night.
Nasim broke the silence with a nervous laugh. "I'm not sure what you just bought."
Tarek hunched a shoulder. How had she known he was a sheikh? Was it a guess because he looked Middle Eastern? What had she meant about sav
ing his country? From what? He shrugged off her words. If his country was on the line, he’d trust his intellect, not his instincts.
Chapter One
Five years later…
Tess coughed, choked, and panicked in that order. She couldn't move. A hammer pounded her left temple. A wave of nausea threw bile into her throat. She swallowed it and pushed both the nausea and the dizziness down. Glancing around, she saw a silver tray canted against a seat, her laptop upside down on the floor—and in two pieces—and all manner of other items scattered around the interior of the plane. The broken computer brought memories rushing back—Phil's voice on the jet's PA telling her to buckle up, the sea of brown, broken by a flash of green, the scream of metal, and impact somewhere in a desert. She'd been reviewing balance sheets and the proposal from Riya about investment in Sharma Entertainment, not paying attention to their route.
Now she was more worried about living to see another day.
She glanced down. Still strapped into the flight attendant's seat, right behind the cockpit, she could hardly move. Where Phil had told her to go—safer than the passenger seats. The straps that had saved her life now held her captive. Her chest ached where she’d jolted against them upon impact. A laugh of relief bubbled up. She released the buckles, stood, and staggered a step. The floor slanted to the right and forward, as if the mid-size jet had buried its nose and wing in the sand.
"Tess?"
Phil's voice came out faint and slurred. He'd been her pilot for years and her father's pilot before that; she'd never forgive herself if something happened to him on the job. Miraculously, the door to the cockpit swung open freely. Phil's lucky pilot's hat still perched on his tight gray curls. A bloody gash oozed red on the side of his head, and his black skin had an ashen cast.
Glancing back at her, he asked, "You all right?"
"Better than you. What happened?" Tess eased up next to him. The control yoke had been pushed into his right thigh, pinning his leg to the seat. She glanced out the cracked windshield to see nothing but sand and rocks.
"Bird strike. A whole damn flock of something came out of nowhere. They were the same color as the desert—I could barely see them." He shifted in his seat and grimaced. "Help me get out, then we'll figure out what to do next."
Tess started unbuckling his harness. "Radio?"
Phil shook his head and put a hand to the bleeding gash. "I got off a mayday. But I expect the birds took out the antenna. Breadcrumbs are going—someone with a locator should be able to find us—but I don't want to wait. I've seen a guy crushed under a car before—I'll end up losing this leg if I don't get free. Push the yoke forward, and I'll slide out. On three."
Tess shoved the yoke forward. Sweating and swearing, Phil pulled himself up and out of the seat. When he was free, she grabbed his arm and helped him out of the cockpit. She lowered him into the seat she had just vacated.
Sweat dripped into her eyes and stuck the back of her shirt to her skin. She wished she'd put on shorts, not jeans. At least her long-sleeve boho shirt was loose and light. They'd lost air conditioning, and the interior of the plane was heating up quickly. She grabbed the first aid kit and some water from the galley, stuffed them into her backpack, and came back to find Phil standing on one foot and popping open the door. A blast of hot air rushed in.
"We've got to get out of this tin can," he said.
"You're going to need help. That leg doesn't look so good."
Phil grinned. "At least I got both feet."
Tess lowered the steps, and Phil eased himself from the jet. She followed and couldn’t help keeping one hand out as if she could catch him if he fell. Tess took one glance back at the plane—it had been beautifully sleek, but now it looked ready for the junk heap. She followed Phil's tracks to the shade of a rocky overhang.
She gave Phil a water and then turned in a circle, looking for…anything. Sand, rock, and for a change, some distant purple mountains. It might have been a better landing spot than the Red Sea or the Persian Gulf, but not by much.
Phil was leaning back against the rock, eyes closed. She dug out the first aid kit. When she had his head bandaged and the bleeding stopped, she turned to his leg, which was puffing up like he had a pillow under his skin.
"You're not walking on this," she told him. "I'm going for help."
"Not a good idea, Tess. Someone should be along. We got that—"
"Mayday out. Yeah, you told me. And there's the transponder that should be telling folks our position. That's assuming there's tech enough around here to be listening." She shook her head. "Didn't we fly over an oasis as we were coming down? One with some black tents?"
"Yeah. Should be due north. Five miles, maybe."
"That’s half my daily run. And I've got a feeling we'd be better off with any kind of help."
Phil managed a crooked smile. "You built an empire on instinct—I guess you’d better listen to it now."
She smiled back and patted his arm. "I'm leaving you most of the water. I'll pack a couple of liters with me." She pulled out her cell phone—amazingly still intact. Thank god she’d had it in her pocket, not sitting out on the table. "No signal here, but I'll keep checking every quarter mile. What else do you need?"
Phil grinned. "Whiskey?"
An hour later...
Tess would have liked to be in a cool, dark bar with a tall drink, too. She'd kept the afternoon sun on her left, set her sights on a boulder shaped like a hippo, and now figured she had to be getting close to the five-mile mark. She could do three miles in less than an hour, but that was on reasonable footing and non-Hellish temperatures. Now her feet were dragging, the dizziness and nausea from being bashed in the head kept her bending over with dry heaves every fifteen minutes, and she still had not a single damn bar on her phone.
Trudging along, she wished she'd brought sunglasses with her. At least she had sleeves covering her arms, and now the jeans were an advantage. Too bad she also had blisters on her heels and an ache in her side. The white sand seemed to simmer with heat, sending up baking waves that blurred the ground. Hippo Rock beckoned. Worry for Phil hounded her. Aches from the crash stiffened her limbs and made breathing hard. Grit seemed to settle in her eyes. And mouth. And bra.
The green appeared over the next rise. Squinting, she stared at what looked like palms. That meant water. She couldn't see the tents now, but they had to be there. Her gut was still saying this was the right thing to do to get help to Phil as fast as she could.
A wave of dizziness stopped her again. Throat dry now, lips starting to sting, she passed a hand over her eyes. At least there'd be some shade under the trees. And water. Plenty of that. She pulled out her phone and managed to focus on the blurry screen. Still no damn signal.
She started walking.
Keeping her phone up, she made it to the palms, and to a hint of a bar on her phone. It flickered up and faded. With a curse, she stumbled into the water. At least it was cool. Eyes half closed, she could hear a hum of some kind now. An engine? She wasn't sure.
She turned to look, and the dizziness swarmed up, sending her backwards into the water. She gasped at the cold of it, swallowed a mouthful of liquid, and then her backpack caught on something, holding her under. Panic spiked. She thrashed, struggling to get her arms free. She kicked out, gulped down more water. The world started to fade.
The next instant, her face broke the surface and she gasped for air. A man held her, and she clutched at his arms. Struggling to breathe, she stared up at him, at dark amber eyes, a chiseled face—a face she wouldn't forget.
He said something she didn't understand, and then asked, his voice lightly accented, "Where did you come from?"
She grasped his arms—strong ones with muscles that held her tight—coughed and managed to get out the words, "My pilot… help."
The next instant, the dizziness and the pounding in her head took over her world. She heard the man say something about a helicopter.
Good—it's being handled. Her
instincts hadn't lied. Closing her eyes, she let the world fade away.
Chapter Two
Sheikh Tarek watched the woman sleep. Tess Angel. He'd recognized her at once, but he'd also found her driver's license in her backpack after he'd dragged her out of the water. She hadn't looked much like an angel, then. She did now.
Thick, auburn hair spread out against the stark white of the pillowcase. Her pale skin held a little too much pink from the sun, but her features were a masterpiece. Straight nose, full lips in a generous mouth, wide eyes under arched brows. She had cleaned up well. He could see why she graced magazine covers regularly—most recently Business Weekly, which had featured her in their article, "The New Feminine Force in Entertainment."
It was fortunate he had been at the Amin oasis for a meeting with the leader of the nomadic tribes that traveled Zahkim's deserts. He had wanted to secure their support. Instead, he ended up with an international celebrity on his doorstep.
He hated the antiseptic smell of a hospital. It reminded him too much of when his parents had died. But he could not allow this woman's care to be trusted to anyone other than himself. From the instant he had put eyes on her, the urge to save her—to protect her—had welled up in him. It had kept him beside her while he sent his people to look for her pilot.